A phone call to a good friend, Rob, found him in much the same mood. We were discussing Manda, the sales director at work; or Man-Dog, as we all called her. 280lb

The afternoon sun refreshed our tired faces like a hot morning shower, strobing brightly as we passed through the forests. Soon we passed through a narrow windy street into the town of Marmaris. It was a sea of hotels, all white, gleaming and in perfect order. It was quite a large town, stretching around a natural bay. White stonewashed houses lined the narrow streets as they wound through the town to our resort hotel. The coach pulled up and we got out, taking a good look. The walls were bright white, and red stone steps ran up to a flagged bar area, past which lay two large glass doors with golden handles. There was English chart music playing on the radio, and a family sat at the bar sipping cocktails. We dragged our cases past them, and they sat watching us struggle with the door, and disappear inside. Through another set of large glass doors at the far end of the spacious marble lobby, I could see a huge swimming pool, surrounded by fair-skinned people sunbathing, drinking, and playing in the water.

Egypt was a bit too expensive, and the Canary Islands, it seemed, were limited in the adventure stakes; Turkey seemed to have it all. Turkey, like other places in the Mediterranean, had a large British tourist turnover. The cold and wet has driven British people to the Mediterranean since the early days of jet liners - towns and resorts have sprung up all over southern Europe to cope with the demand. Turkey was no different in that respect. It was warm, cheap to get there and cheap to stay. Beer was 50 pence a bottle, and you couldn’t even buy water for that in England. Rob was impressed. ‘I’m going to need a lot of money’, he said, grinning.

The desk attendant welcomed us and showed us to our room. It was small, but pleasant. There were red tiles on the floor with gleaming white walls, twin beds with single white cotton sheets, and a small but functional bathroom. I noticed there was no plug in the sink, and there was a large sign on the wall, telling you to put used toilet paper in the wastebasket, not down the toilet. A separate doorway between the beds led to a private balcony overlooking the bar area, and the restaurant over the road. Not too bad, I thought. We quickly unpacked and headed downstairs.

These WERE finished houses, or at least finished as they would ever be. This is how they lived! A short, gnarled, grey looking woman dressed in a flowing gown that covered her head to foot stooped by some chickens as we drove past, kicking up dust. She looked unperturbed as her white headscarf flapped in the wind, and the chickens scattered, squawking.

The streets were full of English people of all guises, wearing every football shirt in the Premiership. Girls wore skirts that didn’t cover their knickers, tops that barely hid their embarrassment, and crowds of young teenage boys followed them intently. We left our hotel and nipped into a nice looking Irish Bar we could see at the top of the street. People were dancing, singing and drinking heavily. The décor was, not surprisingly, like many of the pubs that you would see in Dublin. It was decked out with a large oak bar, shamrocks everywhere, Guinness on tap and the mirrors on the walls donned advertisements for English and Irish beers. Rob quickly returned from his trip to the bar with a couple of drinks, and we stood and drank them thirstily. As the night wore on, we worked our way down the streets, going from bar to bar, getting slower and slower in both speech and step. The King’s Arms, Ye Olde English Pub, The Dog and Duck. - They were all there; it was like a Friday night in Skipton. After a good night drinking and dancing we decided to make our way back to the hotel, stopping off at a kebab stand to stem the hunger pangs that yelled through the sea of beer in our stomaches. The smell of frying onions and spicy meat was familiarly intoxicating, though the face behind the stall was definitely not the same guy o

Some topics in this essay:
Lunn Poly, Alexandria Egypt, Factory Turkish, Yorkshire England, Santa Claus, Turkish Delight, Football Club, Skipton Street, Mediterranean British, Manchester Marmaris, lunn poly, door office, resort hotel, john baptist, rob hand, roast beef, kebab stand, nice looking, belly dancer, coach pulled,